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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940085">can ghosts be gay?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/passion_dies/pseuds/passion_dies'>passion_dies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mild Gore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:54:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/passion_dies/pseuds/passion_dies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, George has fallen hopelessly in love with a ghost.</p><p>He must find a way to keep him in this world before it’s too late.</p><p>title inspired by carpetgarden</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. fading</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His visits have become less frequent now.</p><p>George’s once constant companion reveals himself once a week, at most, if he stays up late enough to catch him. </p><p>He’s spent too many hours at his computer tonight, poring over his latest coding project in search of the issues preventing it from running. It’s all been to no avail. A particularly frustrating attempt brings his tired gaze to the clock on the bottom of his screen. He lets out a long, slow puff of air. </p><p>It’s already past three. </p><p>A few quick clicks of the mouse save his latest draft and shut his computer down for the night. His monitor stays lit, illuminating the room enough for George’s eyes to catch him when he swivels his chair around. </p><p>A tall figure lurks in the corner across from him, hidden in the shadows. There’s a faint glow around him, emitting small particles of light that twinkle and twirl through the air. They disintegrate before hitting the floor. The creature stares straight ahead, completely still, without any hint of emotion on his gaunt, deathly pale features. Even to George, it’s frightening.</p><p>“Dream?”</p><p>Milky white eyes flit over to his face. A lump of fear forms in George’s throat.</p><p>“Dream, you... You don’t look well.”</p><p>He hates seeing him like this. His hair is dull and dry, marred with ugly patches of paper-thin skin that’s torn to his skull. Ivory bones stick out of his impossibly thin frame, peeking through the gaping holes in his worn and faded clothes. He’s missing two of his fingers. What’s left of his hands is discolored and black, withering away into nothingness.</p><p>It’s the stuff of gory zombie movies and nightmares.</p><p>George sucks in a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut, counting to ten under his breath. It’s a trick he’d learned in his childhood. </p><p>Sometimes, it works.</p><p>This time, it doesn’t. Dream stands in the same spot, still watching him blankly and still terrifyingly not himself.</p><p>He tries again, slowing down his count this time. </p><p>
  <em>Ten.</em>
</p><p>His fingernails dig into the palm of his hand.</p><p>
  <em>Nine.</em>
</p><p>Deep breaths always help.</p><p>
  <em>Eight. </em>
</p><p>It’s just Dream.</p><p>
  <em>Seven. </em>
</p><p>He’ll be back to normal in no time.</p><p>
  <em>Six.</em>
</p><p>Won’t he?</p><p>
  <em>Five.</em>
</p><p>He will. </p><p>
  <em>Four. </em>
</p><p>He has to be.</p><p>
  <em>Three.</em>
</p><p>A chill starts at his wrist and shoots up his forearm, sending tingles down his spine. </p><p>“George?”</p><p>Dream’s voice is distant. It echoes off the invisible barriers that divide their two worlds, barely making it to George’s bedroom.</p><p>One eye cautiously squints open.</p><p>The ghastly apparition has been replaced by something that almost seems real. The tattered clothing that hung off Dream’s body is replaced by a plain, slightly wrinkled t-shirt and some loose sweatpants. He stands next to the chair, leaning down so that their faces are level. Color has returned to his cheeks. His bright eyes gleam with emotion. A normal, fully fingered hand gently rests atop the spot on George’s wrist that’s now numb with cold. The only indication that he isn’t a physical being is the ring of ghostly light that still surrounds his frame.</p><p>“You scared me,” George states, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his tone. “You were standing over there, by the bed, and you wouldn’t answer me.”</p><p>“I was?” Genuine confusion flashes over Dream’s face. “I don’t remember that.”</p><p>“Well, you were.”</p><p>It isn’t Dream’s fault, George knows, and he doesn’t really blame him for it. It isn’t the real reason he’s upset. </p><p>“You’ve been gone for a while.”</p><p>George can see his face twist with guilt immediately. Dream pulls his frigid hand away and shoves it into his pocket. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, sounding even further away now. </p><p>That response is the last thing George wants. The corners of his lips pull downwards into an ugly frown and he fixes a steely glare onto the man in front of him.</p><p>“Why? Did I do something?” He doesn’t try to hide his anger. Each word is loud and sharp, laced with the pain built up inside of him after each night alone. “Do you not care anymore?”</p><p>“George, you <em>know</em> that’s not true-”</p><p>“Do I?”</p><p>The air is tense and heavy, thick with frustration. It makes each breath difficult, lungs straining with every inhale. His heart hammers against his ribcage, refusing to still until he’s received an answer.</p><p>Silence festers his wounded trust. It drags on, and on, and on, until he feels as though he’s drowning in the nothingness. It’s interrupted just as he begins to believe his own accusations.</p><p>“You do,” Dream insists firmly. </p><p>The doubt dissipates. He does know it isn’t true. They’ve spent too many years together now for him to believe otherwise. </p><p>It hasn’t made the loneliness hurt any less. </p><p>“The last time you were here, you promised it wouldn’t be this long,” George reminds him. The malice is gone, leaving raw hurt. His voice trembles, each word coming out more shaky than the last. “I don’t want an apology, I want an explanation. A <em>real</em> one.”</p><p>His cheek stings, bitter and freezing, when Dream tries to cradle it in his hand. There isn’t even the slightest pressure from his contact. It’s just a piercing, overwhelming coldness, like icy snow pressed against bare skin. At times, it’s comforting. Not now, though. Now, it feels empty, a reminder that they can never experience something as necessary as touch.</p><p>George tilts his head away, rubbing his own hand over his cheek to wipe away the coolness. Defeated, Dream’s shoulders droop. He takes a few steps backward and appears to carefully contemplate his words before he speaks again. </p><p>“I don’t know how to explain it, George. It feels like… I dunno, like I’m fading.”</p><p>The lump George feels in his throat returns, this time from a different type of fear. </p><p>“Fading? What does that mean?”</p><p>Dream won’t answer. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but George is sure he catches the muscles in his face tense up as he clenches his jaw shut. It’s his telltale sign that he’s keeping something important to himself.</p><p>They’ve spent countless hours through the years trying to figure out what Dream is. There’s really only three things they know with certainty.</p><p>The first is that whatever he is, he’s <em>real</em>. He isn’t a figment of George’s imagination. </p><p>They’d found each other when George was eight. As a Disney-obsessed child, he’d begged his parents to take him to Disney World to see his favorite characters in real life. Apparently, he’d been convincing enough (or annoying enough) to get them to plan a ridiculously expensive trip to America. </p><p>He doesn’t remember much about the rides or the meet-and-greets. He does, however, remember meeting a little boy on the way back to their hotel room one night. He sat in the lobby near the elevator, looking lost and completely alone. Unbeknownst to his parents, George snuck him into their room and stayed up all night with him, whispering jokes and muffling the sounds of their laughter to keep his family from waking up. </p><p>The next day, he was disappointed to find that his new friend had vanished. When he’d confessed the story to his mum so she’d help reunite them, she’d laughed and insisted it was all just a dream.</p><p>He’d believed it at the time, even when the boy showed up again the next night. Matter-of-factly, he’d explained that he was a dream, and because George was older and wiser, the boy didn’t question him. </p><p>The name stuck. </p><p>Now, though, they’re both aware that Dream exists in the waking world. He isn’t a hallucination or an imaginary friend, either, because George has watched nearly a dozen separate people go pale with fear and stare at the exact spot where Dream stands. </p><p>He’s also seen countless others ignore him completely, oblivious to his existence. Whatever Dream is, he’s only visible to a select few people, and George just so happens to be one of them.</p><p>They also know that Dream doesn’t remember much outside of their time spent together. He can recall some facts about himself, things like his birthday and his favorite movie. There are faint memories of a life lived elsewhere in America that return to him as he grows.</p><p>All of the important details are lost. No faces, or voices, or names. Not even his own.</p><p>The only other thing that they know for sure is that Dream isn’t living. </p><p>He’d been mortified of the decaying corpse that haunted him in the night. Its visits were infrequent and unpredictable. It would always vanish when Dream showed up. George would welcome his cold embrace, letting tears of terror flow freely down his cheeks as he described the silent spirit that never moved and never spoke. His fears were quelled by Dream’s soft voice, promising to protect him from the dead.</p><p>As they both grew, the mangled and lifeless body became more and more familiar. The resemblance between them was undeniable.</p><p>The look that the monster gave him one night when he called Dream’s name was the final piece of evidence needed to confirm that they were the same person.</p><p>Suddenly, George’s throat runs dry.</p><p>The version of Dream he’d seen earlier that night, the one that’s remained unchanged for years, is not marred with age. His skin is pale and faded, but it isn’t wrinkled. </p><p>He’s young. Mid twenties, at the absolute latest.</p><p>Panic sets in. He searches Dream’s face, unsure how to tell him what he’s realized. </p><p>It isn’t necessary. The pained smile Dream offers him in return must mean he already knows.</p><p>He doesn’t have much time left.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. grief</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Everything will be fine. You’ll be fine, Dream. Whatever’s happening will go away.”</p><p>George doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince anymore. He’s repeated those words over and over now for the past few minutes as he paces around his room, each step full of false confidence. </p><p>“You’re going to be fine.”</p><p>Dream’s refusal to answer feeds the ball of anxiety building up inside of him. </p><p>They’d never considered a possibility like this. There were so many unknowns about what Dream was and how his universe worked, but he always came back. Always. No matter how long he was gone, he’d always return. </p><p>The uncertainty in all of this is what’s driving George mad. There isn’t a handbook he can consult on the workings of the afterlife. He’s bound by the knowledge of the living, and the living can hardly understand their own world. </p><p>It’s made worse by the fact that he’s dealing with it alone. In situations like these, he relies on Dream to keep his head level through soothing words and honest advice. Without reassurance, his anxiety grows, bristling and jagged, until it bursts into shards of irritation. </p><p>“Aren’t you going to say something?”</p><p>Dream’s typical upbeat demeanor is gone, replaced by a solemn acceptance. He’s slumped against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes silently tracking George’s body as it moves back and forth across the room. His lips stay pressed into a thin line, unwilling to speak.</p><p>Any response would’ve been better than none at all. Hell, the rotting, skeletal version of Dream would’ve been better than this. Silence is expected from the dead. Now, though, he’s perfectly capable of talking and still chooses not to. </p><p>Being deliberately ignored is a new type of betrayal, one he’s never experienced from Dream, and it’s hitting him at the worst possible moment.</p><p>To say that George is mad is an understatement. A confusing mixture of emotions churns around inside his chest. There’s plenty of anger, hot and bubbling, fueled by frustration and desperation. The guilty look on Dream’s face feeds it further. After a few tense moments, it boils over into his brain. </p><p>All self-control is lost. </p><p>His legs carry him towards the other man without any conscious direction. They stand face-to-face, mere inches apart, and still Dream remains unmoved. George’s fingers curl into fists so tight that his bones ache with exertion, as if they’ll snap under any more pressure. </p><p>“Say something!”</p><p>Their eyes lock together in a tense standoff. Neither yields.</p><p>Seconds pass. Each of their resolves weaken. The anger slowly subsides in George’s chest, shrinking to something that’s still unpleasant, but manageable. The steely strength reflected back at him on Dream’s face slips away as well, unmasking a look of exhaustion that borders on defeat. </p><p>“Say something,” he repeats. </p><p>It’s not a demand anymore. </p><p>“Please.”</p><p>Dream’s chest rises with an inhale, loading up the breath needed to speak. His pale, chapped lips relax and part slightly. It’s as if there’s a word on the tip of his tongue, and George waits with bated breath, relieved to finally get something out of him.</p><p>The hope dies as quickly as it started. </p><p>His jaw clenches shut again and a heavy exhale passes through his nose. His eyes flicker shut, as if he can’t bear to look at George’s desperation, and he shakes his head to dispel any lingering expectations he’d had about a response.</p><p>Rage rushes back to him. Infuriated, George swings both of his arms forward in a futile attempt to shove Dream backwards. His hands plunge straight through his chest into unbearable cold, as frigid as the water under broken ice in the dead of winter, and his palms land flat against the wall behind him.</p><p>There’s a level of unfairness in the way they can physically interact with each other. Dream is bound by the same rules as any living person. He can touch and hold and feel anything that a normal human could, soaking in the heat of George’s skin or the soft, bumpy texture of his woven blanket. </p><p>However, to the real world, the only thing Dream can provide is a hollow coldness. The blanket will remain still under his touch, and George will never feel the weight of his fingertips. He’s simply an observer, unable to contribute anything besides his own presence.</p><p>It isn’t often that George initiates any contact between them because it’s completely pointless. When he tries to touch him, his fingers curl around puffs of air, and Dream’s skin twists into ugly, distorted ripples. The illusion is ruined for a few seconds as the particles that make up his hand rearrange themselves, reminding him that his companion is nothing more than a trick of the eye. </p><p>George isn’t the only one that feels uncomfortable when it happens. It’s a feeling that Dream loathes, which is understandable. He wouldn’t be pleased if someone ruined a piece of his body, either, even if it was only for a moment. At this point, it only happens occasionally, when George isn’t paying close enough attention and accidentally brushes against him. He hasn’t done it intentionally in years.</p><p>He’s never done it maliciously.</p><p>Chilly tendrils creep up the rest of his arms and into his chest, cooling his fiery emotions. They shrink and fizzle out, leaving behind ashes of unpleasant emptiness. It takes a few sobering breaths for him to recover enough to pull his hands away from the mirage in front of him. </p><p>It’s clear to see that Dream is shaken by the event. George doesn’t have to look at his face. The way his hands tremble and flicker in and out of sight is confirmation enough. </p><p>“Dream, I… I didn’t mean to-” He stops himself before he can finish his sentence. Better to cut to the point. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>His apology is weak. Those two, small words carry a hefty load of shame. His outburst had been childish, uncharacteristically violent, and completely inappropriate for their current situation. </p><p>George may be losing Dream, but Dream is losing himself.</p><p>-</p><p>In ten minutes, their argument is all but forgotten. They’ve fallen into their typical position for difficult nights. George sits up in bed, back slouched against a pillow he’s leaned on the headboard. A heavy blanket is draped over his outstretched legs, held up by the loose pressure of his forearms folded onto his stomach. Dream lies beside him, face-up. His head rests on George’s lap, seeping coldness that permeates the barrier between them into his thighs. His smile has returned to him, and although it’s smaller than usual, it’s genuine.</p><p>“I can take a look at it, if you want.”</p><p>“Really? You think <em>you’ll</em> be able to figure it out?” George chuckles in disbelief.</p><p>They’ve started lighthearted conversation again. The current topic is the disaster that is George’s latest project.</p><p>“I fixed it for you last time, didn’t I?”</p><p>“Last time was different. I hadn’t slept in nearly two days, otherwise I would’ve figured it out myself.”</p><p>This time, Dream is the one who laughs. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees patronizingly.</p><p>For a ghost, Dream is surprisingly good at coding. It had been a fascination of theirs when they were teenagers. They’d spent too many sleepless nights learning together, bickering over whose ideas were better. George usually won out, as he was the one in control of the computer, and he’d learned to tune in the voice in his ear just enough for it to be helpful without letting Dream’s micromanaging drive him insane.</p><p>“I don’t want to think about it anymore tonight.” He’s comfortable now, too comfortable to leave the warmth of his bed and stare at a bright screen. “I’ll send it to Nick tomorrow. If he can’t help, I’ll let you do it the next time you’re here.”</p><p>There’s no response.</p><p>Too late, George realizes that next time is a touchy subject. It isn’t a guarantee anymore. </p><p>It’s impossible to move on from his slip-up. The mood is ruined, dragged down by a looming dread. Now that it’s dug its claws into their lives, it won’t let go, forcing both of them to dwell on their sadness. Finally, for the first time, Dream speaks on it.</p><p>“I was going to tell you sooner.”</p><p><em>I wish you had.</em> </p><p>A response like that would shut the conversation down immediately. No matter how much he wants to say it, he bites his tongue, settling for a less confrontational reply.</p><p>“How long have you known?”</p><p>“A while, I guess.”</p><p>George scoffs. He presses again.</p><p>“How long?”</p><p>It takes a moment for Dream to speak again.</p><p>“A few months.”</p><p>“<em>Months</em>,” George breathes, stunned. “What happened?”</p><p>“I didn’t know if it was real at first. Instead of waking up here, I was in this strange house full of people I’d never seen before. All of them were asleep. I tried to get their attention, but they couldn’t hear me.”</p><p>His voice sounds far away, lost in the memory. </p><p>“Everything felt so different there. It’s like… Here, right now, it’s almost like I’m in a video game. There’s a disconnect between my mind and my body here. It’s hard to focus on anything because it all feels so fuzzy, and every once in a while it glitches and messes up, like I’m lagging.</p><p>“That doesn’t happen there. Everything is so crisp- It feels <em>real</em>. I didn’t notice how distant I’ve started to feel until I was there.”</p><p>Pale eyes flutter shut. The peaceful look on his face is replaced by something strained and tired.</p><p>“The thing is, when I’m there, I have a hard time remembering anything else. I can remember the other times I’ve been there, I just don’t remember… You. I don’t remember anything outside of that house. All of my memories, all the stuff that makes me <em>me</em> is gone.”</p><p>Dread creeps up the back of George’s neck, whispering a warning into his ear. It’s becoming more and more clear that whatever’s happening is not going to fix itself, and it doesn’t sound like Dream will be able to do anything to stop it. </p><p>“After a while, I figured out that those people are – were – my family. I still haven’t been able to talk to any of them. They look a lot like me, though. My little brother looks just like I did when I was younger.”</p><p>There’s a hint of pride in Dream’s tone. George has been the only family he’s had for his entire life. It must be nice to find someone else that you can connect to, especially someone you’re bound to by blood. </p><p>A selfish part of George swells with jealousy. If it was up to him, he’d have Dream here every night with him. His family can’t interact with him, so what’s the point of spending time with them? Why watch them sleep when he could be here, cuddled up to someone who can actually speak to him?</p><p>It’s almost as though Dream can sense his unease, because he adds a quiet, “If I could wake up here instead, I would. It’s out of my control.” </p><p>“I know,” George murmurs, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He still wishes Dream had told him sooner. Now, he isn’t sure how much time he has left to fix this before he stays with his family permanently. </p><p>Dream has always been the strong one. He’s always the one that talks George through his struggles and grapples with his fears. When they have arguments, he defuses them, accepting blame and letting go of his grudges to maintain their relationship. </p><p>It’s daunting to be in that role now. Now, George must play the hero and find some magical solution to a problem completely out of his reach. Dream is helpless, and even if he won’t admit it out loud, George can tell that he’s afraid. </p><p>George is afraid, too.</p><p>The silence between them stretches on for a few comfortable minutes. It isn’t like before, full of anxious anticipation and resentment. Now, it’s peaceful, only interrupted by the occasional car that rumbles down the nearby street. </p><p>“George?”</p><p>His eyes flit down to Dream’s face.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>He’s met with a bittersweet smile.</p><p>“I love you.”</p><p>He’s heard those words thousands of times. They still make his chest flutter with an airy excitement. </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>A grin spreads across his face as Dream gasps, clutching one of his hands to his chests in mock pain. </p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>It’s hard to play oblivious when he’s smiling this hard. George tries anyway.</p><p>“What’s the problem?”</p><p>“What’s the problem? You’re killing me here.”</p><p>George shrugs, picking at a stray string on the blanket. “I don’t know how to help you.”</p><p>“You know <em>exactly</em> how.” Dream dramatically drapes his arm up over his forehead. “Hurry. I don’t think I have much time left.”</p><p>“Really? How terrible.”</p><p>The body on his lap suddenly goes limp. It would be pretty convincing, too, if it weren’t for the way his face scrunches up with suppressed laughter. It’s like watching a dog play dead with his tail still wagging in uncontainable excitement.</p><p>“Oh, no,” George says monotonously, lacking any real sympathy. “I guess I’ll never get to tell him.”</p><p>One of Dream’s eyes cracks open. It shuts as soon as George notices it.</p><p>“I…” He lets his voice trail off to build up anticipation. Dream doesn’t move.</p><p>“I love you, too,” he mumbles, so soft he can barely hear himself. </p><p>Apparently, it’s loud enough to bring Dream back to life. “What was that?”</p><p>“What? I didn’t say anything.”</p><p>Neither of them can keep up the act. George lets his laughter escape his chest, and Dream follows suit, bursting into giggles of his own. </p><p>For a moment, things feel normal again. It gives George some confidence.</p><p>He extends a hand, fingers outstretched. Two cool, glowing ones wrap tightly around it.</p><p>“You’re going to be fine.” </p><p>This time, he believes it. </p><p>“I promise.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading! gonna introduce some new characters next chapter and the pace'll pick up a bit so i'm excited about that! feedback is always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! kind of a weird premise, i know, but bear with me! i'll flesh out their relationship some more in later chapters. any feedback is appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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